


With the Swiftness of Achilles

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Body Worship, Easy Company Reunion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunion Sex, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: When Joe answered the hotel room door, he was half expecting either the bellboy with a message passing on Don's regrets, or management with reasonable questions about how Joe planned to pay his bill.
Relationships: Donald Malarkey/Joseph Toye
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Band of Boyfriends Kisstober Challenge 2020





	With the Swiftness of Achilles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kisstober Day 10: Scar kisses.

He hadn't really expected Don to show. Sure, he'd written that he would, even called Joe a few weeks before to double check the arrangements, but they'd both been pretty juiced, and Don always promised a lot of things when he was half a dozen beers in.

So when Joe answered the hotel room door, he was half expecting either the bellboy with a message passing on Don's regrets, or management with reasonable questions about how Joe planned to pay his bill.

There Don was: clean shaven, clean clothes, clean everything. So different than the last time Joe had seen him in those awful days leading up to the worst day of Joe's life.

"Hey," Don said, and smiled like he too was surprised to be there. He offered neither the formality of a handshake nor the familiarity of a hug, but looked Joe over. He ran his eyes up and down Joe's body, catching on the stiff way he held his leg, before jerking back up to his face.

"Don't just stand there gawping," Joe muttered. He'd lurched across the room without his cane, and now had to pivot awkwardly around to make room for Don and his suitcase, one hand on the wall for balance. Don turned sideways so their bodies didn't touch, even as his jacket brushed against Joe's shirt. Joe drew in a deep breath. Don was still wearing that same shitty aftershave he'd liked in England. The scent cut through the sweat of a two-day train trip.

"I know I'm getting ripe," Don said, putting his suitcase down and glancing around as Joe shut and latched the door. There wasn't much to see: a double bed, a window with a view of a parking lot, a sink and a set of doors that had a shower stall on one side and a toilet on the other. "How about I..." Don nodded to the shower door.

"Course," Joe agreed. Though he didn't care if Don was clean or not. He'd come the whole way across the country, and maybe it wasn't just to see Joe. That was looking on the bright side; Don had probably come for the same reason Joe had: Bill Guarnere didn't take no for an answer. The man had the organisational tact of a big game hunter. Joe had thought about the possibility of Don being there, as much as he'd let himself hope, he'd imagined a friendly meeting, maybe a quick fuck in the latrines. Then he'd gotten that letter, the one that'd suggested they go halves on a room, "Like we used to in London!" Then, a number of things had occurred to Joe. Right after that, it had occurred to Joe that he was probably barking up the wrong tree after all these years. Don had never mentioned anything like that happening, not since that last fling in Rheims. He was probably just as broke as Joe was, and couldn't afford the hotel on his own.

Joe collapsed back onto the bed, still feeling ungainly, even after a year of practice with the doctors, and watched Don fish things out of a battered wooden suitcase that looked like Don had taken it to Europe with him. Joe should probably ask how the trip out had been, though he didn't expect there were too many answers to that, or how Don was doing, or say something about how good it would be to see all the guys again. Joe had never been at a loss for words, even if he didn't talk as much as some, but now they all seemed trapped behind the swirling conflict of trepidation and desire.

Just as Don closed the shower door behind him, he poked his head out and grinned at Joe. "It's good to see you again," he said, and winked. His tone left perfectly clear exactly what he expected to happen after he got out.

A fellow knew he had it bad when a fucking wink had him at half mast.

Don then took the longest shower in the history of America. For a few minutes, Joe lounged on the bed, thinking that Don could undress him, if he wanted. Then he thought maybe Don had meant by being happy to see Joe that he wanted to see more of Joe, and that he wanted Joe to be naked when he came out. It would certainly cut through a lot of preamble involving buttons, zippers, etcetera.

Joe sat and peeled out of his shirt and undershirt, looking down at his scarred torso. Other than the ping on his arm, Don had seen all this before: the grenade shrapnel across his chest and stomach, the ridges of white skin around his left arm and wrist from when he'd skinned it on that first real jump. He hesitated over his pants, then decided that Don was going to have to deal with the whole leg situation eventually. He took his pants and skivvies off, and then unfastened his leg and leaned it against the dresser, piling the clothes on top of it so it wasn't so obvious.

As Don's shower continued, Joe lay on top of the scratchy hotel bedspread and considered that maybe Don hadn't wanted to see quite this much of him all at once. He'd just gotten under the covers when the shower cut out, and Don emerged in a cloud of steam. He reached for a towel, but then saw Joe lying on his back with the blankets up to his chin like a virgin bride, and froze in place. He raked his hand through his hair and wolf whistled.

Joe pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look. Water was running off Don's hair, following the lines of muscles and red-brown body hair down his body to pool under him. Joe wanted to catch every drop with his tongue, to lick backwards up Don's body, to fall to his knee and worship him.

"You think there's any water left in the hotel?" Joe asked.

Don grinned and shrugged, unabashed as he towelled his hair dry and did a cursory swipe of the rest of his body before dropping the towel in the puddle and crawling across the bed. "Bored without me?"

Don didn't know the half of it, he couldn't imagine the intolerable year that had followed his release from the hospital, the crushing loneliness of it, and yes, the boredom. Boredom worse than he'd faced in the army.

"I've got another guy lined up, if you weren't planning to come out," Joe said. He dropped back into the bed, folding his arms behind his neck in a show of nonchalance.

"Whoever he is, he's out of luck." Don was on top of the covers Joe was under, straddling the shape of his hips. His hair dripped in Joe's face, and Joe opened his mouth to catch a drop on his tongue.

"Guess he is," Joe agreed, but then doubled back to make sure, cursing his uncertainty even as he said, "This's what you meant? 'Splitting a room'?"

"I hoped it was," Don told him. "Couldn't be sure you still..." He shook his head. "Guess you do." He bent and kissed Joe lightly on the mouth, lips wet and tasting faintly of soap.

Before Joe could grab him by the hair and hold him down to get a better taste, Don pulled away and surveyed Joe. The overhead bulb glared down on them, too harsh and bright to hide the wear Joe had picked up over the last couple years. Don didn't focus on that, though, but turned to the jagged scar on Joe's right bicep, the New Year's shrapnel. It was still pink, not quite faded into the white lines of Joe's older scars.

Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Joe unclasped his hands from behind his neck and started to tuck his arms under his blanket. Don had always liked his arms, he'd said, liked how strong Joe was, how capable.

"Hey," Don said, freezing Joe in place with just that word. He caught Joe's wrist before he could tuck his arm out of sight, and squeezed his hand lightly. Then he bent down and pressed his lips to the scar. The skin at the centre of it didn't have much feeling left, but Joe could feel the pressure of it, and the warmth of Don's lips rushed across the skin of his arm. Joe hadn't noticed he was cold until he felt Don's skin flushed from the shower against his own.

Joe felt his chest tighten, like Don was leaning his full weight on top of Joe, not just crouching over him. "Malark," he started to say, but Don was already letting go of his right wrist to grab his left. His fingers caught on the rough skin there, old scars that had never heeled right. Joe had fought those three days and nights with no skin on his arm, and it hadn't come back pretty. Don took his hand and turned it, examining skin he'd already seen a hundred times.

"Hey, come on," Joe said. He wasn't used to anyone who wasn't a medical professional wanting to see any of this. Sure, he and Bill had jokingly compared wounds when they were stuck in the army wards in Atlantic City, but there'd been a brazenness to that, a pretence that it wasn't that bad, not really. How could it be bad if your buddy who was wrecked just the same pretended it was fine?

Don kissed him on the mouth just long enough to shut him up, then planted a row of kisses up the inside of Joe's forearm. His hair fell forward again, and dragged in front of Don's mouth, baptising the skin before Don kissed it dry. The image of Mary weeping on the Lord's feet and drying them with her hair flashed through Joe's mind. Like everything else, Don had gotten it backwards.

When Don started to shuffle down Joe's body, pulling the blankets back as he went, Joe opened his mouth to protest, only to have his voice stilled by Don's lips on his chest. None of the grenade shrapnel had cut deep, but Joe had a dozen knicks and dents across his chest from it. Places that he had to search through his chest hair to find. Don had cooed over them in London, years ago, when the cuts were still bright and fresh, stinging under Don's touch. Don's intention felt different this time, less fuss and more possessiveness, like he was walking around his house making sure everything he owned was still there. Don located and examined each mark, kissed it, and moved to the next.

Joe could feel the blood rising to his face, and he took a double handful of the covers and clenched them, gritting his teeth to keep from moaning. He could feel whatever was in his chest start to open, and he didn't know if he could stand it. Don kissed his stomach, the faint white scar just below Joe's bellybutton. Joe didn't even remember how he'd gotten that one. It was so old, it had to be from the mine, before he and Don had even met.

Don had the blankets down to Joe's hips, and again Joe tried to hold him back at him, clutching Don's shoulders, and keeping him in place until Don looked up. "Nothing you need to see down there," he said.

Don deliberately looked down at where Joe's cock was pushing up against the rumpled covers, then back to Joe's face, and raised both eyebrows. "I don't know, Joe, seems like there's something down there that I came all this way to Philadelphia for."

Before, when they were at war, Joe would have said something about how it was damn right his dick was worth travelling over two thousand miles to see. Now, he couldn't make himself say it, because if Don had just come out to have a quick screw for old time's sake, if he'd only ever been interested in the sex. Well, Joe knew heartbreak well enough, had known it all his life, but he didn't know if he'd be able to stand that. It must have shown on his face, because Don's eyebrows came together, and he got that soft hangdog look of his, the one that would make chocolate melt just being near it.

"Oh, Joe," Don said, and pulled the blanket down to his knee.

Joe let his head fall back and closed his eyes for good measure. He didn't want to see Don's face when he finally got a look at all that was left of Joe's leg. Don had always loved Joe's legs, said he loved watching him run, loved how he could pick Don up and fuck him against the wall, quoted some bit of poetry about a Greek or something—fleet-footed blah blah blah—Joe usually started sucking Don's cock at that point, just to shut him up. Joe had never figured how his body was anything special, save that it got the job done.

Joe felt Don's lips brush the side of his dick, the tiniest of kisses on the way down. Then Don was rubbing his hands up and down Joe's right thigh. The Docs in Atlantic City'd had to cut above the knee, eventually, and the final scars were neater than the original field hospital butchery. Still. Joe knew what Don would see: the heavy lines of stitches, how the end was pink and raw from wearing the damned prosthesis, how it wasn't two strong legs.

He felt Don's cheek rub against the outside of his thigh, skin smooth and freshly shaven like Joe's rarely was any more. Don kissed each scar in turn, every stitch and jagged, awful line, until Joe felt like no part of him had gone untouched. He wanted to say that Don didn't have to, but he didn't have the heart for it, in the end. His cock certainly wasn't objecting to Don's hands and mouth all over his thighs.

Don crawled back up Joe's body, pulling the blankets with him, until they were both snuggled in the bed. Don's dick brushed against Joe's hip, as hard as Joe was: one question answered, at least. When Don was level with him again, he kissed Joe on the lips. His mouth tasted salty from Joe's sweat, and his hair wasn't dripping as much any more. He took his time about it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and caressing Joe's cheek with his thumb. Joe finally moaned, and opened his eyes to take in the blur of damp auburn hair. He inhaled again. It was so good to smell Don's clean fresh skin, see him happy and not pinched and on edge. Joe kissed him back and cradled the back of his neck in one hand, and his shoulder in the other. Don's hands had gotten soft since he'd gotten back, but Joe's were still rough and hard. They'd always be like that, he thought.

Breaking away, Don kissed Joe's forehead in benediction then sat up. He was straddling Joe's waist now, and as Joe watched, Don licked his palm and fingers and reached back to coat Joe's cock with spit. He did it twice more, taking his time, not bothered by Joe grabbing his hips, moaning, tossing his head. It'd been so damn long since he'd had someone else's hand on him.

When Don shuffled back, lifted, sank down onto Joe's cock, Joe worked out at least one thing he'd been doing in the shower. Don's ass was open and slick, and he slid down easily. He kept his weight braced on Joe's shoulders, and lifted off again, half by leaning forward, half with the strength in his legs. Joe didn't have to do anything, but he took Don's hips and helped him move. His arms were stronger than they'd ever been, built by having to carry his own weight. It was easy to lift Don up and pull him down again, even if he didn't have the same leverage as he used to when it came to bucking his hips.

They'd done this before, mostly in London hotels, sometimes on passes to Rheims, once in the back of a truck on the side of some Dutch road. Don said he liked having Joe under him, making things go as fast or as slow as Don wanted them to. He never said that he liked breaking Joe open to wring out those little unguarded moments that followed sex, but he did. Don would shower praise and poetry and profanity on Joe, words as decadent as the feel of his ass clenching around Joe's cock, the same slow drag to them, the way he'd tease. And after, Don would lap up ever scrap of sincerity Joe could find it in himself to offer with an earnest appreciation that made Joe feel like a miser no matter what he said.

Joe didn't last long, the pure sweetness of the sex, so long dreamed of, the ache of loss inside him for that moment filled, all pulled him over into bliss. He closed his eyes, fumbling for Don's cock to jerk him off, and found Don's hand already there. They worked their hands in time, their fingers wound together, and Don came a moment later. He might have said Joe's name, but it was lost in a wrenching cry.

Don sat there after, leaning down on Joe and panting hard. He's face was hectic with heat and perspiration, and he couldn't seem to focus his eyes on Joe's face for very long, constantly needing to blink and glance away. He'd just kissed all the broken parts of Joe as if he was blessing them, and now he couldn't seem to look him in the eye without weeping.

"Sentimental Irish bastard," Joe said, voice thick.

"Takes one to know one," Don agreed. He leaned down, rising a little off Joe's cock, and kissed him again. "But I warn you, I'm buttering you up. This is all part of my plan."

"Oh yeah?" Joe rolled them over, bodies still partly joined, until he was crouching over Don, who didn't seem to object to being pinned. "What plan is this?"

"Oh, you'll find out." Don lifted his head, but instead of kissing Joe, he brushed their noses together.

Joe could probably wheedle it out of him—he knew where Don was ticklish, after all, and he was terrible at secrets—but he thought he wouldn't mind being buttered up, not if it was going to keep being like this. "Yeah, sure," he said, trying for casual lack of interest and missing by a mile.

Don grinned at him, clearly knowing that he had Joe in the palm of his hand, for all that he was flat on his back. He leaned up and wrapped his arms around Joe's neck, pulling him down far enough to kiss the shrapnel scar on his arm. It sent the same tingle through Joe's body as the first kiss, and Joe shivered, as much at how Don's sincerity left him adrift as at the sensation.

"For Christ's sake, Malark. You don't have to... to..." For once, Joe faltered, not sure what he wanted Don to stop doing, rather, he had too many things, a whole Niagara falls of uncertainties that Don's easy affections were only setting off. He cleared his throat, and narrowed his eyes, glaring down at Don until he stopped grinning like an idiot. "You don't have to pretend."

"I never would, not with you, Joe," Don told him.

Joe shook his head slightly and rolled off of Don, falling onto his back again. Don rolled over to rest his head on Joe's chest, hand over his heart, drumming his fingers along to its beat, the slow rhythm of a dance tune. He was thinking about what to say; Joe could just about see the gears turning in that college-educated brain of his.

But all Don did was repeat his earlier promise, this time with redoubled sincerity. "You'll find out."


End file.
